


Thirty-Two Hours From Dunedin to Dublin

by allrounderinsane



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 02:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14843525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allrounderinsane/pseuds/allrounderinsane
Summary: The adventures of Brendon and his ‘mate’ Eoin, from the beginning of the 2006 county season, to explorations and sleepy confessions of love during the 2018 T20 tri-series in New Zealand.





	Thirty-Two Hours From Dunedin to Dublin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlbieGeorge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlbieGeorge/gifts).



> To the lovely Albie for your abundant patience, and for all of your humour and good graces. You rock and we’re very thankful to have you in cricfam.
> 
> Seeking to fulfil SLFE Prompt #7:  
> Brendon McCullum/Eoin Morgan - whatever plot (or lack thereof) you like, but I am a fan of tropes, epic snogs and no-one getting their heart too badly broken.
> 
> Much of this story is (obviously) highly, highly imaginative, beyond the simple ‘this is a work of fiction albeit based on real people’.

I.

 

_April 2006_

 

Dunedin to Cardiff is not a trip for the faint-hearted, but is one for wavering wicketkeepers who have been offering a batting stint with Glamorgan. First, Brendon must head to Auckland before he can leave the country, a short leg of only an hour and forty-five minutes. Passport at the ready, he flies out to Doha, seeing no more of the city than the airport terminals he passes between. Due to a quirk in visa requirements, Brendon must bypass the direct flight to Cardiff, even though he wouldn’t mind heading straight to the foreign bed he’ll start to call his own, but instead takes off for Heathrow Airport. Upon touchdown, he sleepily reads the airport signage to learn where he needs to collect his bags from, to lug them through the airport to catch his connecting flight. Somehow, Brendon manages to stand upright about a metre back from the carousel. Until the luggage starts arriving, he allows himself a moment to close his eyes. Worried that he’ll fall asleep standing up, Brendon opens his eyes again. They promptly widen in panic, when he spots a black cricket coffin. Brendon presumes that it’s his, from a distance and with foggy vision and lunges for it like a catch down the legside.

 

+

 

Eoin’s mother always told him to count sheep if he needed to sleep, so he wonders what animal he should count to keep himself awake. His flight to London followed a long day of goodbye, even though this was not his first time away in England, and was unlikely to be his last. Eoin watches the baggage carousel intently, waiting for his coffin to appear. When it is spurted out onto the conveyor belt, he shuffles forward. Just as Eoin reaches for it, a stocky figure tumbles in front of him, yanking it off the baggage carousel. He gasps softly, before the man facing away from him studies the bag more closely and sheepishly places it back. To be polite, Eoin waits a beat, then reaches forward and seizes his cricket coffin. As he lugs it off the baggage carousel, he notices a slight smile from the man who tried to take it. Recognising him, Eoin narrows his eyes until he recalls his name – Brendon McCullum.

“Sorry,” he apologises, once it’s clear that Eoin did see him after all. “I guess I thought that I would be the only one on my flight with a kitbag.”

“You probably were,” Eoin confirms.

He points to the neon sign above them, next to the number of the carousel.

“Here are the bags from the flight from Dublin, too,” Eoin explains.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brendon spots another kitbag.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs, then reaches out to grab it.

Once Brendon has pulled it onto the vinyl floor, he studies the label.

“This is mine,” he confirms with a grin.

“I knew that this one was mine,” Eoin notes, “because of the green ribbon.”

He flicks his eyes towards a bow tied to the handle, and so does Brendon. Eoin laughs, a little sheepishly.

“I know that that’s a cliché, coming from Ireland,” he admits. “I’d pass the blame on, but I tied it on, although I was following my mother’s recommendation.”

“Ireland, then,” Brendon repeats. “I thought that you might have been from Ireland.”

“Did the accent or the red hair give it away?” Eoin quips.

Brendon blushes a little, slightly taken aback.

“The accent,” he insists, “and then the flight from Dublin, but only once you’d mentioned it.”

Slowly, Eoin nods.

“Apologies, I should have introduced myself,” he apologises, making a free hand so that he can present it for Brendon to shake. “I’m Eoin Morgan.”

“Great to meet you, Eoin,” Brendon replies. “Brendon McCullum.”

“I know,” Eoin confirms with a grin.

Brendon bobs his head, then glances away. Side by side, they move through the crowds of passengers, away from the baggage carousel.

“Are you playing county cricket this summer, Brendon?” Eoin wants to know.

“Yes, I am,” Brendon confirms, “although for Glamorgan, so I still have a connecting flight to Cardiff before I can call it a night.”

Finding free floor, they pause, and Brendon lets out a laugh.

“There were direct flights, but I have to have had my passport stamped in England, first, apparently,” he explains.

“I should leave you to it, then,” Eoin allows.

“Hardly,” Brendon replies. “I’ve already been through immigration; I’ve just got to head through to catch the next plane.”

“Still,” Eoin permits.

He’s enjoying this conversation, but he doesn’t want to appear like a fanboy, preventing Brendon from going about his business at the airport.

“Are you playing for Middlesex, Eoin?” Brendon checks.

“Yes, I am,” Eoin confirms. “It’s my first summer. I’m quite excited.”

“Ah, if it had been one year earlier we could have played against each other,” Brendon notes.

Together, they start wandering, prompted by exhaustion and each following the other towards nowhere in particular.

“Yes, hopefully you’ll help to improve Glamorgan’s fortunes,” Eoin comments.

“Here’s hoping,” Brendon agrees.

Their eyes linger on each other. Neither is quite willing to break the conversation as yet. At the same time, Eoin knows that Brendon has another flight to catch. Besides, surely someone from Middlesex will be waiting for the nineteen-year-old Irish boy.

“Flight BA328 Heathrow to Cardiff has been delayed due to snowfall,” an announcement sounds, droning through the terminal.

Brendon’s ears prick up to listen, recognising the flight number as his own.

“Passengers will be advised of the revised departure time when circumstances change.”

Brendon waits for the voice to quiet.

“Well then,” he finally remarks. “It looks like that I’ll be staying here for a while.”

 

+

 

In the end, there is nobody waiting for Eoin. He accepts Brendon’s request to wait with him until his flight to Cardiff will end up leaving, watching through a large window pane as snowflakes are swirled by the wind.

“What’s your poison, Eoin?” Brendon enquires.

Eoin’s eyes bulge.

“Are you--?” he queries, then trails off.

“Offering to buy you a drink?” Brendon suggests, then answers the question. “Yes. Take it while it’s going hot.”

“Alright,” Eoin agrees.

He gulps.

“Thank you,” Eoin adds.

“You’re welcome,” Brendon replies.

Both smiling, their eyes linger on each other for a moment.

“Well, I certainly don’t mind rum,” Eoin reveals.

Brendon nods, not breaking eye contact.

“Rum?” he repeats. “I can manage that.”

It takes Brendon an extra second to draw his eyes away from Eoin, to call the bartender and order glasses for them both.

“We’re in an airport,” he points out. “It’s cheaper.”

Eoin draws his eyebrows together in bemusement.

“Isn’t that just in bottles?” he counters.

Brendon pauses to think. Finally, he shrugs his shoulders.

“Maybe it is,” Brendon admits.

When both glasses arrive, he hands over some of his fresh British currency.

“Anyway,” Brendon dismisses and seizes his glass, allowing Eoin to do the same.

He raises it, tilting it towards Eoin’s.

“Cheers,” Brendon wishes.

Eoin grins.

“Cheers,” he echoes, then clinks his glass against Brendon’s.

They both take their first sips, then settle onto the stools they’re perched atop.

“So, Eoin,” Brendon speaks up, “you’re a young Irish cricketer, you’re from Dublin.”

“Yes,” Eoin agrees, nodding his head.

“Wicket-keeper, batsman, bowler?” Brendon queries, raising his eyebrows.

“Batsman,” Eoin confirms.

“Do you bowl at all?” Brendon asks.

“Mate, everyone bowls in the nets,” Eoin insists with a grin.

“Too right,” Brendon agrees.

He downs more of his glass of rum.

“I’m a keeper, you see, or at least trying to be,” Brendon explains.

“I know,” Eoin confirms, then laughs. “I’m not some fanboy, though, I promise.”

Brendon smirks.

“I’m offended,” he quips, then finishes his drink.

 

 

 

II.

 

_August 2006_

 

With news of his selection for Ireland, Eoin drives along the wet roads which lead from London. He knows that it’ll take him hours to get to Wales, but at least he’ll definitely beat Brendon back from Cheltenham. Each day is elongated at the height of summer, but Eoin suspects that nightfall will win the race. He doesn’t mind – most of the things that he wants to do when he surprises Brendon in Cardiff only ought to be for after dark, anyway. Eoin sits up straighter in the driver’s seat. While trying not to draw his eyes away from the road for too long, he scans the countryside. Eoin searches for buildings, somewhere to stop.

 

More than heeding warnings about road safety, there are purchases which he needs to make. Eoin’s heart thumps faster at the thought of it all. He pushes his foot down harder on the accelerator, causing the car to skid. Gulping, Eoin brakes just as quickly. It’s only when he’s regained control that he breathes out. Eoin should stop soon, if only to shake the anticipation out of him. In the distance, he spots a building, and pulls off at its driveway. When examining the infrastructure more closely, Eoin frowns. The rest stop is deserted, graffiti covering its walls. Eoin slows his car to a stop, then glances over his shoulder, away from the setting sun.

 

Nobody is watching him, yet paranoia creeps over him. Eoin knows that he needs to return to the road soon, or he’ll get cold feet. The option that he neglects to address is heading north and getting himself in possession of a ticket for the ferry, to go home. Eoin will have that chance, soon enough. He just has to be patient, in the lead-up to a likely debut for Ireland. Eoin exhales, then changes his blinker. He swings the car around and drives back onto the motorway, to continue his journey towards somewhere else, somewhere less eerie, to stop, rest and make his purchases. Once he’s settled back into the trip, he flicks his eyes down to the time. Eoin’s car is bestowed with a small digital clock. It’s almost the most fancy thing about it, considering that the radio doesn’t even seem to work properly. Therefore, it can’t keep Eoin company, but the knowledge that he’s getting closer and closer to Brendon can. He’s already an hour and a half out of London, halfway there.

 

+

 

Brendon returns to London during the following week, yet only for one stolen night. He’s just set his alarm for an hour of the next morning so early that it probably still counts as the night before. As Brendon rolls back against the pillows adorning his stiff hotel bed, there’s a knock at his door. He waits a beat. Then Brendon pulls himself to his feet and goes to answer the door. He doesn’t check first and is beaming when his suspicions are confirmed. Eoin is standing in the corridor.

“So,” he asks, “are you going to be a gentleman and let me in?”

“Um,” Brendon pretends to think.

Eoin shakes his head as he laughs and charges into the room, affirmed by Brendon’s widening smile.

He just manages to close the door again before his vision is obscured by Eoin. Soft lips are on Brendon’s, Eoin’s shoe stroking up his calf, small bag in his hand brushing against the side of his knee. After their passionate kiss, Eoin withdraws, looking satisfied. Brendon returns his grin.

“I’ve been waiting for you to do that for a while,” he admits, “so, thank you.”

“I’m a man who knows what he wants,” Eoin insists, “and I’m lucky that I’ve found it.”

Brendon smirks.

“Luck of the Irish,” he quips.

Eoin chuckles.

“I’m a funny-looking sheep,” he remarks, before Brendon ends the cliched national banter with another kiss.

 

+

 

When Eoin wakes up, it takes him an extra second to remember where he is, the hotel room of Brendon’s he hasn’t seen a great deal of. Just as he checks the time – two fifty-nine ticking over to three o’clock – the alarm blasts. Brendon jolts awake and Eoin snuggles back into the bed next to him.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” he apologises. “I have you make it to the airport. You can check out for me if you’d like, you can stay here.”

Eoin giggles.

“I’m sure that they’d notice the difference,” he remarks.

Brendon presses a kiss to Eoin’s forehead.

“Just leave the key in the after-hours box,” he recommends. “That’s what I would be doing now, anyway.”

Eoin pauses for a moment, then goes to nod his head in agreement, before reconsidering.

“As cosy as this bed is,” he notes, “it’s only cosy because you’re here.”

Brendon smiles with humility.

“Thank you,” he replies.

Brendon gives Eoin one last cuddle.

“Unfortunately, I have a flight to catch,” he reminds.

As Brendon pulls back the blankets, Eoin inches up the pillows. His bare chest is exposed to a hint of moonlight that rims the curtains.

“Is this what it’s like, international cricket?” Eoin questions.

Brendon draws his eyebrows closer together as he reaches his suitcase and opens it, to retrieve his polo shirt for the flight.

“What do you mean?” he seeks clarification.

Eoin loosely runs a hand through his hair.

“Is it all hustle and bustle and saying goodbye?” he wants to know. “In the end, is it worth it?”

Brendon turns to face Eoin again, standing up straight and with his shirt hanging on his arms.

“It’s worth it,” he insists, “because it could be taken away any day.”

When Brendon’s expression disappears under his shirt, Eoin takes the opportunity to look away.

“So, I enjoy it,” he explains. “Or, at least I try to enjoy it, as much as I possibly can.”

Eoin is not looking at Brendon.

 

+

 

In the end, Brendon has three hours in the air to his change of flight in Amsterdam to think about leaving Eoin in his London hotel room that morning; three hours that he usually would have spent thinking about the upcoming tour of Zimbabwe. He feels just a little guilty. Perhaps Brendon should be focused on cricket. Yet, he reasons that he’s spent the last four months plying his trade in county cricket. Brendon has been adapting to English conditions in the harsh environment of the second division of the Championship and the cold climate of Wales, albeit one which makes him feel more at home than he expected.

 

Sure, he’s spent that time getting to know Eoin, too, and he’s been enjoying that. Surely letting his hair down occasionally isn’t that bad for Brendon. He’s unlikely to be telling any of his New Zealand teammates, though, about the relationship. As his flight approaches Amsterdam, Brendon takes advantage of having to have the shade raised. He studies the landscape of the Netherlands and finds himself looking out for people wearing orange. There are several, of course, in high-visibility uniforms. They adorn the tarmac, in preparation for Brendon’s plane to land, and then whatever must be done after that to occur. He knows that it’s a national stereotype, perhaps just as bad as the cheesy ones he flings around with Eoin.

 

It’s all in good fun, and part of the package of being from opposite sides of the world. So, too, is the reality of distance, something that Brendon has endured in Wales and surrounds, with Eoin in London and the bright lights of Division 1. He finds himself chucking at that, because he can already hear, in his mind, Eoin’s Irish accent protesting. He’d argue that it’s just as nippy when the first ball is bowled and the sparse crowds are just as elderly. When instructed to by an in-flight announcement, Brendon rises to his feet and makes his way out into the aisle. He carries a small bag with him, which had been under the seat in front of him, and thus has nothing to retrieve from the overhead locker.

 

Albeit only as quickly as the tedious movement of the rest of the passengers will allow, Brendon makes his way to the front of the plane. He thanks the flight attendants with a polite smile, before heading into the terminal. Thankfully, Brendon won’t have to transfer his own kit for his connecting flight to Johannesburg. Perhaps that’s what the figures in orange on the tarmac are for, to carry out that task. Yet, as Brendon trudges through the airport, he checks himself in regards to his gratitude. If he hadn’t had to stop in London, he never would have crossed paths with Eoin. Brendon wouldn’t have sleepily tried to take his bag. Had that been the case, he wouldn’t have the smile on his lips that he does now.

 

+

 

_September 2006_

 

Following the drawn match to conclude Middlesex’s County Championship, Eoin wanders across the outfield, grass a little damp underneath his bare toes. His fingers are curled around the neck of a beer bottle. Eoin has only taken a sip, just before leaving the dressing room. Late September is so far beyond the end of the summer that it’s the beginning of autumn. It’s hometime, for both himself and Brendon. Eoin’s feelings are conflicted, and thus he’s reluctant to mix them with lager. Instead, he heads for the majestic tree on the field at Canterbury. Eoin glances up between the branches in awe, then reaches out, wincing just after he brushes the supple palm of his hand over the rough bark.

 

He pulls his hand away sharply. Clutching it, Eoin pivots, loosing his footing and slumping against the trunk with a grunt. He looks out over the pitch. Once again, it has been covered, ready to be put away until the pre-season. Without a glimpse, Eoin tries to rest his beer against his leg, just where his trousers are riding up his pale shins. Yet, his positioning is imprecise, and the bottle tips over. Eoin grasps the bottle of beer as quickly as he can, yet some still spills onto his foot. He glances back towards the dressing room, almost expecting one of his teammates to turn up to laugh at him, but nobody does. Perhaps nobody has noticed that Eoin has gone.

 

 

III.

 

_March 2007_

 

The Irish squad congregate at Dublin Airport before sunrise. Like the others, Eoin wears a suit with a crisply-ironed white shirt underneath his jacket. For the meantime, it’s a little uncomfortable, but he suspects that it will keep him warm once he’s onboard the chilly plane. Eoin’s attire is complemented by an embroidered green tie, as worn by each member of the squad. There are a handful of people waiting with them to say goodbye and wish them luck. Proud family members have turned up, but Eoin has already farewelled his own kin, the day prior. Now, it’s time to start focusing on the cricket. At least, it should be, but Eoin’s not going to be quick to make that pronouncement.

 

After all, Brendon’s all he can think about, how he’ll get to see Brendon again, hopefully, when he arrives in the West Indies. Eoin has tried his best not to check their schedule, not wanting to appear too keen. He doesn’t want to scare Brendon off, but that’s hard to do when living on opposite sides of the globe. Yet, Eoin holds a guide to the World Cup, like every other Irish player has been given. Some of them will use it as reading material for the flight, he’s confident, giddy with excitement about taking part. Checking first, Eoin leans back. Resting on the wall, he flips open the glossy-paged book and searches for the section about the New Zealand team.

 

Sure enough, printed pixels resembling Brendon’s face beam up at him, causing him to smile. He runs his eyes down the list of matches, paired with their dates and locations. March 6th, 2007, against Bangladesh in Barbados. They won’t cross paths then, unfortunately, with Brendon based in Barbados for the warm-up matches, while Eoin is with Ireland in Trinidad and Tobago. Of course, he knows that he’s flying into the airport in Barbados, just for a stopover, so there’s every possibility that they could accidentally meet. Eoin would like that, just like their very first time running into each other at Heathrow.

 

 

IV.

 

_June 2009_

 

Brendon and Eoin stood face to face, near the closed doorway of Brendon’s hotel room.

“Come with me to Dublin,” Eoin encourages. “I want you to see where I’m from; I want to spend more time with you.”

He sighs softly.

“I don’t want you to go back to New Zealand just yet,” Eoin revals.

Brendon pauses a beat, then a smile creeps onto his lips.

“Would you miss me if I left?” he enquires.

“I,” Eoin stammers, “I would miss you a great, great deal.”

“How much?” Brendon seeks quantification.

Eoin takes a breath, then kisses Brendon passionately. When he finally pulls back, he’s gasping softly. Eyes wide and lips red, Brendon waits with anticipation.

“That much,” Eoin confirms.

Brendon pauses, then nods his head. He wraps his arms around Eoin’s torso, fingers linking at the small of his back.

“Well,” he surveys, “I suppose that that much is enough to warrant me coming to Dublin with you.”

“Good,” Eoin responds.

Brendon laughs. He shuffles his feet, pulling Eoin closer to him.

“What would you like me to see in Dublin?” Brendon asks. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” Eoin insists, shaking his head quickly. “Look--.”

He draws his eyes away. Eoin searches for the right word on the grey carpet, patterned with swirls of a slightly darker shade. Finally, he looks Brendon, who has been waiting, in the eye again.

“I’m not taking you to meet anyone,” Eoin explains. “I need to be honest with you about that, and--.”

“It’s not a lack of commitment?” Brendon guesses, one eyebrow slightly raised.

Eoin narrows his eyes, unsure of whether he’s been accused or assured.

“No,” he challenges, but he’s not exactly confident of what he’s protesting.

Eoin gives a hearty sigh, worried about disappointing Brendon.

“I appreciate having you in my life,” he reassures.

Brendon tilts his head to the side.

“Are you breaking up with me?” he wants to know.

“No,” Eoin repeats. “I’m telling you that I want to take this--.”

He flicks his eyes between his and Brendon’s bodies, not game to call it a relationship for fear of sounding too attached to a man who needs to live on the opposite side of the world to him.

“Your great presence in my life,” Eoin finally decides, which causes Brendon to chuckle fondly, “as far as we can take it. I know that, at the end of the day, you’ll go back to New Zealand and I’ll end up wherever I end up and hopefully, that keeps bringing us back together.”

“Hopefully,” Brendon agrees. “Eoin, I appreciate that you’d take me to Dublin.”

“Are you rejecting me?” Eoin questions.

“No,” Brendon insists. “I’m saying yes. Yes, thank you for inviting me to Dublin. I can’t want for you to show me around. I’m looking forward to it.”

 

 

V.

 

_February 2011_

 

All above Eoin are the ceiling, panelled with off-white squares rimmed with grey piping, and his shattered World Cup dreams. His tongue feels claustrophobic in his mouth, as he feebly tries to regulate his breathing. Eoin counts every breath, like sheep if he was trying to fall asleep. Maybe he is, so that he will be numb to the aching of his body and his brain, at least for the meantime. Eoin is aware, though, that he’ll then have to wake up. He thinks about the itinerary that had been ahead of him, even a match against Ireland. That’s one that, guiltily, he’s almost glad to miss. Those men are still Eoin’s friends. While he plays against his friends all the time, in county cricket in particular, seeing the opposition in light green can cause him to question himself, where he knows that he can’t afford to. Yet, Eoin sighs, because he’s aware that he doesn’t have any case against being fond of the opposition. Brendon is a chief example – he doesn’t question the ethics of defeating New Zealand because Brendon will be sad. Perhaps it’s because he understands what that means; for England to defeat Ireland is to reinforce the order that sent Eoin east in the first place.

 

 

VI.

 

_May 2013_

 

The tour of England begins in early May, just when Christchurch is starting to become uncomfortably chilly for a professional summer-chaser like Brendon. Given that the first tour match is in Derby, the Black Caps will be flying into Birmingham. Stops in Sydney and Dubai only provide stolen glimpses through airport windows at cities that Brendon has visited before. It takes almost two days of travel, which thanks to time differences allows them to awkwardly arrive in the mid-afternoon. As captain, Brendon has the ability to deliver the edict that the players have no formal duties for the remainder of the day. He’s more than happy to, particularly given his aching body.

 

Upon getting to Derby following an hour on the coach, Brendon encounters a charming room. The décor doesn’t appear to have been updated for several decades. Yet, the bed is large and inviting and Brendon moves as quickly as he can to change into more comfortable clothes. Admittedly, that’s not particularly fast at all, given that his skin feels too cold from the plane. Brendon’s beaming when he finally peels back the blankets. He slips himself into bed, feeling like a little boy again, needing an afternoon nap. Brendon’s about three nights overdue for a good sleep, after all. He closes his eyes and doesn’t think that it’ll take him long to drift off, and then he plans of dreaming of Eoin and pushes cricket out of his mind. Brendon breathes out, his head sinking into the soft pillow as he does just that, blissfully.

 

 

VII.

 

_March 2014_

 

The England squad are flying out of Heathrow together to the World T20, milling around in suits before take-off. For Eoin, it’s not too much of an imposition, because he hasn’t had to leave home a day earlier to make it to the capital, unlike the lads from other parts of the country. He knows that they’ve had to leave their families behind, which isn’t even something that he does anymore. Eoin finds himself searching for Joe, then stops himself when he remembers that the young Yorkshireman’s broken thumb has prevented him from making the tour. Joe is disappointed, undoubtedly, a glumness he notices on the face of one of his wicketkeepers, even though Jos is trying to bury it in the book he’s reading.

 

Especially as vice-captain, Eoin considers going over to him. It’s not like he’s really got a story of his own to share. After all, Eoin will be catching up with Brendon at the World Cup. He’s been keeping this secret for long enough that he trusts himself not to let it slip. Perhaps Eoin can relate, albeit in a different way. Thus, he sighs softly and heads over to Jos, standing in front of him. When he’s not noticed, Eoin sits down beside him. It’s then when he decides to wait, just in case Jos is fine and only wants some time to himself to read. Eoin tries to think of the right line to eventually begin conversation with. Once he does, he can’t resist.

“Have you packed another book for the flight?” Eoin remarks.

Jos startles a little.

“Sorry,” Eoin apologises quickly, under his breath.

“Yeah,” Jos confirms, then looks back to the pages.

Eoin checks their teammates. Nobody else is paying attention to them, which makes him feel more comfortable in intervening. Therefore, Eoin leans forward and tries to look Jos in the eye.

“Joe will be alright,” he insists. “This thumb will be fine.”

By keeping the conversation about cricket, and my extension, his health, it’s above board.

“Yeah,” Jos echoes. “It’s just a shame that he’s been injured at the time of the World Cup.”

 

+

 

“What are you thinking about?” Brendon queries.

He’s only speaking to break the silence.

“Outside,” Eoin admits.

His eyes flick towards the window. He can’t see anything more than the sky.

“Do you want to go outside, Eoin?” Brendon queries.

He chuckles.

“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to be feeling really rebellious for that,” Brendon reminds.

Eoin scoffs.

“Of course not,” he insists. “I.”

Eoin pauses.

“I was thinking about how there’s so much of the world outside, and everything in here seems so still.”

 

 

VIII.

 

_February 2015_

 

It’s Brendon who is first to wake up, while Eoin is still sleeping on his back, chest rising and falling. He props himself up on one elbow. Brendon watches Eoin sleep, admiring his features and his closed eyes. It brings him comfort that he’s been able to get some rest. There is so much pressure on Eoin’s shoulders, which are now resting against the front edge of the pillow. Brendon knows pressure, too, but he’s also aware that his is different. Carefully, he reaches out with one hand and strokes Eoin’s red hair lovingly. It’s slightly damp with the sweat of being under blankets. When Eoin stirs, Brendon gasps softly. He immediately withdraws his hand.

“I’m sorry, Eoin,” Brendon whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, if you can.”

Eoin smiles, albeit a little groggily, and closes his eyes again. Given that a second passes, Brendon thinks that he’s done just that.

“You were patting my hair,” Eoin notes.

He’s beaming. Brendon laughs in confirmation. Especially given that Eoin’s eyes are closed, he finds himself welling up. Perhaps it’s the emotion of the World Cup getting to him, or that the room is overheated.

“I was,” Brendon notes.

“You can keep going,” Eoin permits.

 

 

IX.

 

_September 2015_

 

Brendon sits down with his laptop and a deadline, aware that whatever he types out for his Daily Mail column is likely to be something he won’t be allowed to forget. He knows that he has to mention the Ben Stokes-Steve Smith-Mitchell Starc-booed at Lord’s-obstructing the field kerfuffle. I is the biggest story in world cricket this week. Brendon’s also been encouraged by the editor that it would be a good idea. He bites his fingernails with slight frustration, not wanting to appear like he’s following that directive. Brendon starts with key words – locations, names of players and buzzwords from the Laws of Cricket, which he hopes that he can form sentences around. As he leans back in his chair, he thinks about himself, trying to put himself in Smith’s shoes. That’s the only way that he can get around expressing his criticism, knowing that it comes from a place of love. Given that he’s alone, Brendon laughs aloud. Smith’s not the captain he loves amongst those two; that’s Eoin – not that he’d necessarily express it in those terms when he’s not by himself.

‘It’s probably too early in Steve Smith’s captaincy career to appreciate this but one day he’ll look back at the Ben Stokes dismissal at Lord’s on Saturday and realise he missed a great opportunity to strike a blow for the spirit of cricket.’

Brendon’s not quite comfortable with the phrasing of that last sentence.

‘We’ve all done things on the field that we regret later. I know I certainly have. But it was disappointing that Smith had the chance to make a statement about the way he wants his side to play the game and chose to play the other way.’

Brendon knows that the editor won’t like him starting a sentence with a ‘but’.

‘Don’t get me wrong: winning is important. But the longer you play the game the more you realise that some things are too valuable to spoil. By not withdrawing the appeal, Smith showed his immaturity. He may live to regret it.’

Brendon’s started another sentence with a ‘but’, but that’s something that his editor will just have to deal with. These are strong and passionate words, but he knows that he must quantify them from his own experiences.

‘There was a Test match where I ran out Muttiah Muralitharan while he was celebrating his partner Kumar Sangakkara’s hundred. I’d have done that differently now.’

Brendon finds himself smirking at the use of the word ‘partner’, but he knows that’s not what he means.

 

 

 

X.

 

_June 2017_

 

It’s customary for Eoin, as England captain, to front a press conference on match eve. This time, he faces yet another set of microphones in Birmingham, while hearing gentle rain patter against the roof. It’s forecast to stop falling before the match against Australia is due to start the following day and that’s something that Eoin would appreciate. He keeps his chin slightly raised to assist him in being able to hear the journalists’ questions, and hopes that they don’t stop how his blue eyes bulge. Brendon is mentioned, perhaps to Eoin’s surprise, although he knows that the line of questioning is fair – especially when the 2015 match is mentioned. He gives a slight smile, only for himself, before he answers, because he knows that he’s returning the favour.

“He’s certainly been an inspiration for me,” Eoin divulges. “Three years at Kolkata with him, in which we sort of grew pretty close together, and I learned a lot from him.”

Of course, Brendon will be watching somewhere, at some stage, and he knows that he’ll repeat that line to him, teasing him about referring to their relationship in the terms of ‘sort ofs’.

“Watching him lead within a group and his sort of tactical cricket brain and how he goes about things,” Eoin continues.

He’s confident that Brendon will pick up on his second use of ‘sort of’. Maybe he will be pleased, perhaps he’ll question that description of his cricketing brain, but Eoin knows that everything that Brendon says will be in jest.

“He always has an alternative view regardless of whether it’s right or wrong, which makes things really interesting when you chat to him about cricket,” Eoin explains.

It also makes things really interesting when it comes to other tasks, like ordering dinner, but he doesn’t mention that. The next reporter again asks Eoin about the World Cup of two years prior, but this time he’s glad to hear it, which is unusual. Maybe it’s because it gives him another opportunity to wax lyrical about Brendon.

“The brand of cricket they played was completely different to everybody else,” Eoin recalls of New Zealand. “They were aggressive, they could score 350 if needed, and they always went for an attacking bowling line-up. Nothing they ever did was a step backwards.”

Yet, he knows how that story ends, and so, for Brendon’s sake, he wants to move the dialogue in another direction.

“So that as a template,” he concludes, “as opposed to just singling out New Zealand, I think, is more relevant.”

 

 

XI.

 

_July 2017_

 

Eoin doesn’t ask Brendon back home with him that night. Yet, he’s glad when he turns up uninvited, just before Eoin’s ready for a shower. Briefly, the idea crosses his mind that he should strip off anyway, but that would ruin the fun of having Brendon help him. Therefore, Eoin stumbles from the bathroom with a cheeky smile still on his lips. It immediately brings pause to Brendon. He studies Eoin with his eyes, and Eoin likes being admired. It’s different to being watched or examined; he’s been watched and examined all day. Even though the hitting challenge is a social-media-stunt-meets-training-session, Eoin’s still working throughout. Professional Eoin, robot Eoin must show his face, then.

 

Now that he’s home with Brendon, Professional Eoin can be tucked away. He can make jokes worthy of the roar of laughter that Brendon afforded him in the middle of Lord’s. Eoin will remind him of that, how he has been trying much too hard. That’s alright, though; because it doesn’t hold that against Brendon in the slightest – secretly, he likes it. Robot Eoin would likely disagree with that assessment. He feels like he’s spent a lot of his career two steps behind, yet running twice as fast as the field, even as England captain – perhaps especially as England captain, when considering the debacle that had been the World Cup a couple of years before. Maybe the only thing that saved his job was the fact that he was a replacement in the first place, for Alastair, who had been required to fall on his sword. Yet, in front of Brendon, Eoin’s heart doesn’t beat any slower. At the same time, however, he can allow himself to unravel, allow whatever lies beneath to be exposed. Brendon holds Eoin close, with a love-drunk smile on his lips.

“I had a lot of fun today,” he admits.

“Yeah,” Eoin agrees. “So did I.”

“It was good to train in the middle,” Brendon outlines. “Also, it was good to train with freedom, like how I try to play.”

“You can play like that now,” Eoin blurts out.

His eyes widen in horror, realising what he’s implied, which could be less than complimentary. Brendon narrows his gaze in bemusement and focuses on Eoin for a moment.

“That’s how I’ve always tried to play,” he insists, “even if that hasn’t always come off, that’s been the plan and I think that it’s a good one.”

“Never fear the air,” Eoin recalls, making sure that he speaks slowly so that he doesn’t accidentally sound dismissive.

“That’s it,” Brendon confirms. “I mean, if it’s good enough to be on a jumper, it’s a good enough mantra for cricket.”

There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice, which makes Eoin feel more at ease.

“It’s a good enough mantra for life, perhaps,” he agrees, although he’s not quite sure what he means by that.

“I thought that you weren’t like that,” Brendon confesses, looking straight at Eoin.

Eoin briefly tips his head to the side.

“I am, sometimes,” he explains. “Sometimes, I think that you’ve taught me this, it’s good to have something to focus on.”

Brendon grins, a little cheekily and nestles his hands in the small of Eoin’s back.

“Am I something that you focus on?” he wants to know, looking Eoin in the eye.

He pauses a beat, then nods.

“In some contexts,” Eoin qualifies. “There are times when I try not to focus on you at all, and I think that you’d understand that.”

Brendon bobs his head slowly, granting Eoin that allowance.

“But there are other times,” he reassures, “when I can’t get you out of my head.”

Brendon giggles, then places a light kiss onto Eoin’s lips.

“That’s just as well,” he jovially insists, “Kylie Minogue.”

Eoin looks bemused, then gets the reference just quickly enough to prevent Brendon from starting to sing.

“Wait, isn’t she Australian?” he asks. “Or is Kylie Minogue from New Zealand.”

“We share,” Brendon explains. “She’s Australian, but we’re in London now, which is far enough away to claim anything east of Madagascar and west of Chile to be proudly from New Zealand.”

Eoin, impressed, gives Brendon’s claim a moment in the sun, then gives way to chuckles.

“Did you have to really think about that?” he asks.

Brendon chuckles.

“I did, just a bit,” he confesses.

Eoin kisses him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve studied geography,” Brendon admits.

“The travel of cricket’s your geography lessons now,” Eoin notes.

“Yeah,” Brendon jokes, “there are only ten countries in the world, aren’t there? I mean, if you believe the ICC, not that I’m inclined to do that.”

This conversation is sliding into dangerous territory, but he hasn’t noticed, yet. Instead, Brendon’s swept up in the warmth of Eoin’s body in his arms.

“Twelve,” Eoin corrects. “Ireland and Afghanistan.”

Brendon blushes, then nods his head slowly.

“Of course,” he agrees.

Eoin can read on Brendon’s face that questions are forming in his mind, so he decides to revert the subject back.

“So, Kylie Minogue,” he speaks up.

Eoin can tell that he’s caught Brendon by surprise a little.

“She’s like Russell Crowe and pavlova, is she?” he checks.

Brendon shakes his head unequivocally.

“Mate, Russell Crowe and pavlova are both dinky-dye Kiwi,” he insists.

“Thank you for the education,” Eoin responds.

“Not a problem,” Brendon reassures, then waits just a moment to kiss Eoin passionately.

 

 

 

XII.

 

_February 2018_

 

Eoin is grateful for the window seat as his flight approaches Wellington, so that he is able to gave the best view of New Zealand possible, before they reach the ground. Leaning to his left, he continues to stare through the pane with rounded edges. Eoin has been to enough airports over the course of his cricketing career, and his life, to know what most are fairly similar in appearance, at least from the tarmac. It’s grey underneath the wheels, marked with the occasional symbol that he does not understand. Eoin places his trust in those who do, on a much larger scale than the people who put their trust in him.

“Are you coming, Morgs?” Dawid finally queries, dragging Eoin out of his thoughts.

He sits up straighter, too quickly, and his seatbelt resists against his lap. Eoin winces, then unbuckles it hastily. Dawid waits for him, a step forward in the aisle. Once Eoin stands and slips out of the row, he notices that his friend and teammates is holding carry-on bags for them both.

“Ah, thank you.” He reaches out and accepts the bag, leading to a smile from an unmoving Dawid.

Finally, he turns around and steps forward, allowing Eoin to follow after him. The rest of their teammates have already trudged off the plane. Eoin narrows his eyes a little, aware that Dawid knows him well, and has likely noticed that he is entranced by New Zealand. It is the landscape himself, usually so far away and yet it reminds him of home. As Eoin reaches the front of the plane, he thanks the flight attendants. Their eyes twinkle as they smile back, then he turns for the stairs. It’s an overcast day in Wellington, off-white clouds thick in the sky. Eoin squints towards them, reaching for the railing without looking. He follows Dawid, listening to the clanging of their feet down the metallic stairs. It’s not where Eoin is that draws him in, but who this land of the long white cloud is bringing him to. Therefore, upon entering the terminal, he fetches his phone, switching it off flight mode and waiting – beaming when a message from Brendon comes through.

 

 

XIII.

 

_February 2018_

 

Eoin drops onto the passenger seat of Brendon’s car amidst bushes out the back of the University Oval with only a backpack which he cuddles on his lap. Seatbelt across his T-shirt, he snoozes while Brendon drives. Every now and then, Eoin comes to, to glimpse at the paddocks and trees which are beloved to Brendon. In fewer than two hours, they have arrived at the only bed-and-breakfast in Caberfeidh, which Brendon joked has just enough consonants in a row for Eoin to feel right at home. He leaves Eoin dozing in the car, while he heads inside to fetch the key. Keeping his breathing even until he feels more awake, he peers out at the trees which overhang the space where Brendon parked the car.

 

New Zealand is different to Ireland, but it’s not unfamiliar. Perhaps it’s that both are lush island nations, or that he recognises Brendon’s fondness for his home. Once he can sit up straighter, Eoin opens the door and swings his legs around, touching his runners to the damp grass. Careful not to bump his head, he stands, pivoting as he closes the door behind him. Eoin watches Brendon emerge from the small foyer of the bed-and-breakfast. When he holds up and jingles the keys to their room, he smiles. Brendon approaches the car again and slings one arm around Eoin, lightly kissing his temple.

“If you’re tired, you can head up to bed,” he offers, placing the keys into Eoin’s palm.

Eoin nods, swaying into Brendon’s pre-prepared embrace.

“I’ll bring the bags up,” Brendon offers.

“Oh, I’ve only got one,” Eoin reminds. “I can take it with me.”

Brendon bobs his head permissively. He takes a step back, withdrawing his arms, so that Eoin can open the passenger door again. Eoin grabs his backpack and carries it by the handle, in the opposite hand to the keys. He flashes a grin towards Brendon, before circling around the back of the car and heading towards the door. Reaching forward, Eoin opens it and steps inside the building. He hums at the warmth of the space and the dated décor, which makes him feel welcomed.

 

 

XIV.

 

_February 2018_

 

Brendon is propped up against the assortment of pillows and cushions which adorned the bed. Eoin’s ear rests against his bare chest, rising and falling as Brendon breathes, trying to listen to his heartbeat, like the ocean from within a seashell plucked from the wide expanse of sand at Velvet Strand. Underneath the sheet which covers them, Brendon moves his hand. The callouses on his fingers brush over Eoin’s arms.

“This is beautiful,” he murmurs. “Thank you, for taking me away from it all.”

Brendon beams.

“No worries,” he replies, “boss.”

Eoin chuckles, shifting to look Brendon in the eye.

“Hey,” he challenges, “that’s my name for you.”

“What’s yours is mine,” Brendon remarks.

As they kiss passionately, Eoin’s head is cradled in Brendon’s hand, their embrace close and warm. Once their lips eventually part, a little breathless, Eoin giggles. He presses his forehead against Brendon’s, his eyes too close to focus his vision on.

“I love you,” Brendon confesses, like he can’t believe the words.

Eoin lowers himself, Brendon’s hands following him. The tip of his tongue runs over his lips. Brendon waits, until Eoin can finally look him in the eye.

“I love you too,” he confirms, speaking at just the right pace for Brendon to believe him.

Eoin pauses, until Brendon beams. He knows just how his long-awaited admission has been received. It comforts Eoin, but he’s grateful for it. He cups Brendon’s jaw in his hand and kisses him again, while his other arm slips behind Brendon’s back. Once more, they tumble. The pillows cushion their movements, as the sheets twist on top of them, contorted by the wriggling of their legs. Once they are tired again, Brendon straightens out the sheet on top of them, so that they can snuggle under it.

“What are we going to do today?” Brendon wants to know.

“We’ll explore,” Eoin decides.

He presses himself against Brendon’s side, prompting Brendon to draw his arm in closer.

“But first,” Eoin continues, “I want to stay right here, with you.”

Brendon presses a kiss to Eoin’s hair, dampened slightly by the warmth of their room, nestled amongst the trees.

“I want to stay here too.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. When I was talking about this story being highly, highly imaginative, I was of course referring to the first chapter. I completely made up the airport meet cute for the purposes of them knowing each other before Eoin’s Ireland debut despite playing in different county divisions (and to link to the title, in some way).
> 
> 2\. Thanks be to Albie, leatheronwillow and all of the lovely people who have compiled various tweets and videos of this pair - they were invaluable in recreating the parts of this fic that were actually researched.
> 
> 3\. The title is a reference to the (rough) flight time between Dunedin and Dublin (with stops, obviously, considering that they are pretty much on opposite sides of the world), the cities where Brendon and Eoin are originally from. I appreciated that they alliterated.
> 
> 4\. Eoin did end up rejoining the 2011 World Cup squad for England. He recovered from his finger injury in time to replaced Kevin Pietersen after he was injured.
> 
> 5\. Yes, there is a bit of Jos Buttler/Joe Root in this story. It’s blink-and-you’ll-miss it, hence why I haven’t tagged it (despite my love for overtagging). It’s in the scene that’s just before the 2014 World T20, when Eoin wants to make sure that Jos is alright going off to the World Cup without his Bae, who had broken his thumb during England’s previous tour of the West Indies.
> 
> 6\. Where Brendon lives in this story is a little ambiguous. I wasn’t exactly sure and didn’t put too much thought into it, but the Black Caps fly out of Christchurch in this story because that’s where New Zealand Cricket is based.
> 
> 7\. In regards to #6, I don’t know if that’s actually true, but generally I think that teams all fly out together - where from for New Zealand I guessed. For the flight stopovers, I just Googled flights between the destinations - whether Brendon would actually fly to Africa via Amsterdam is slightly dubious, but it was what the interwebs said.


End file.
